Powerful acts
by Tez
Summary: Asking for help is a powerful act...WJ, post-Intruded
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me. Neither do any of the characters. If they did, Jordan would stop being such a flake and get it together with Woody, the Ultimate Sliders Hotness.

A/N: This chapter takes place between Out of Sight and Intruded. And I don't like Devan. Sorry.

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When I reach Nigel's office, in search of the DNA analysis I asked him to run earlier this morning, I hear a nauseatingly familiar laugh.

"Wonderful," I sigh, rolling my eyes as I push the door open. I was hoping to get through the whole day without running into Devan. I take a moment to hope that I can just duck in, grab the results, and escape before she spots me, but my efforts are in vain.

"Jordan," she chirps, her arms full of files. "I haven't seen you in a few days."

"Oh, I've been busy," I say, shooting Nigel a look. He snickers, hearing the addendum to that disclaimer that I manage not to voice. _I've been busy avoiding you._

"Well, if you're not too busy now, I was about to go get some lunch. You could come with me if you want."

"Thanks, Devan, but I'm swamped," I tell her, reminding myself that it isn't really a lie. I do have a lot going on today. "Rain check?"

"I'll hold you to it," she says brightly, and I struggle with the overpowering urge to roll my eyes at her.

"Have a nice lunch," Nigel puts in from in front of the computer. She smiles at him, hefting the files and heading for the door.

"I think I'll see if Detective Hoyt is free for lunch," she tells us blithely. "He's a really interesting guy. And cute, too. Huh, Jordan?"

With that, she flounces out of Nigel's office, leaving me glaring daggers at her back as the door shuts behind her.

"God, I hate her," I mutter, half to myself.

"Careful, love," Nigel warns, glancing up from his keyboard. "You're turning green."

"I am not."

He pushes away from his desk, leaning back in his chair to regard me with a superior smirk.

"Are you trying to tell me you aren't jealous of the attention our dear Detective Hoyt has been paying to the lovely Miss Maguire?"

I sigh, grabbing the file I need off of his desk. "She's so…_perky_." I use the word as an expletive. "Like a cartoon character on speed. I don't know what he sees in her."

"I do," Nigel pipes up helpfully.

"Shut up, Nige. I don't want to hear about how cute her butt is. Again."

"Oh, don't be mad, love," he chuckles. "You know your arse is cuter than hers."

He reaches out to squeeze the arse in question and I smack his hand.

"You're such a pig."

"Lovely posteriors aside, Jo," he says, rubbing his now-sore hand, "Devan has one thing you don't."

"What? Sparkly pom-poms?"

"Emotional availability," he retorts. "Listen, Jordan. Woodrow's been chasing you for years, but you've never let him catch you."

"I'm hard to get," I say defensively, and he nods.

"Yeah, I know," he replies, sounding a little exasperated. "But no man is the Energizer bunny, love. Not even Woodrow. He can't just keep pursuing you indefinitely without any sort of encouragement. You and I both know how he feels about you, but if you keep pushing him away, he might actually eventually _go_."

"So what am I supposed to do?" I demand, feeling strangely exposed. I forgot how observant Nigel can be. "If things get too serious, I'll cut and run. You know that."

"You don't have to run, love."

"I don't want to," I say softly, pleading. "I don't want to run anymore. I'm tired of it. But old habits die hard, Nige. I don't know how to stop myself. And he means more to me than…he means a lot to me. If I let him in, if I let him get close to me, and then he hurts me…I don't think I could take it."

He watches me pace around his office, a knowing look on his face.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

I stop dead in my tracks. "I guess I am," I whisper, covering my face with my hands. "God, Nige, I do love him. What am I going to do?"

"You could talk to him," he offers gently.

"How?" I ask, my tone scathing. "I can see it now: 'Hey, Woody, here's the autopsy report on your latest victim, and by the way, I'm in love with you, so please don't break my heart because I think it might kill me if you did.' That'll go over real well."

"You could just try letting him in, love."

I blink rapidly, trying to fight back tears.

"What if he doesn't want me?" I ask, hearing the hitch in my voice. "I've strung him along for such a long time. What if he's given up on me? What if he wants somebody with less baggage? I couldn't blame him if he did."

"He doesn't," Nigel says, confident. "Nobody who looks at you like Woodrow looks at you could possibly want someone else. He cares about you, Jordan, and he wants to be there for you, but he can't be unless you let him."

"And if he breaks my heart?"

Nigel gets up and comes over to me, pressing a brotherly kiss to the top of my head. "Then we'll patch you back together, love," he promises. "That's what friends are for."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan, the characters, or the sets. Which is too bad, because the set for the morgue is supercool.

A/N: This chapter takes place during the conversation between Woody and Jordan at the end of Intruded. The writers had a great idea but less than perfect execution with this scene, so I fixed it for them. I've decided to pretend there's never been any hard evidence of a friendship between Devan and Woody, because I really don't like her. Also, I was cracked out on cold medicine when I saw this episode, so if I get any of the details wrong, I apologize in advance. I could swear that Woody returned Jordan's mother's locket to her during this conversation, but it might have been a part of my Nyquil-induced hallucination. If it was, then just pretend he gave it back to her.

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"You'll be okay here? Alone?"

"I'll be okay," I lie through my teeth. He gives me an assessing look, but nods in reluctant agreement.

"All right," he says slowly. "Then I guess I should…" He gestures toward the door.

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

He turns to leave, then hesitates.

"You'll call me? I mean, if you need anything?" he asks, turning back to me. I smile halfheartedly, nodding, and he heads for the door again. The nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach increases exponentially with every step he takes, and I find myself looking for an excuse to make him stay.

Suddenly I can hear Nigel's voice in my head, from the conversation we had last week. _Try letting him in, love. He cares about you and he wants to be there for you, but he can't be unless you let him._

"Woody?"

I'm startled by how frantic I sound. He spins around to face me, instantly concerned.

"Jordan? What's wrong?"

I force myself to look him in the eye, but I can only stand it for a moment before my gaze falls to my scuffed-up Doc Martens.

"I lied," I whisper, blinking back tears.

"About what?" he asks, and I sniffle, completely overwhelmed.

"I'm not okay."

I hear him take three rapid steps on the wooden floor and then his arms are around me, pulling me tightly to him. I can't help but notice how strong his body is against mine; how solid and reliable. In an instant, I know I'm doing the right thing by stopping him from leaving. I've never been comfortable with being needy, but I need him now, comfortable or not. His embrace reassures me that he's going to be here for me, that I can lean on him for support. God knows I need someone to lean on before I completely lose my mind.

I glance up to find him watching me, and he brushes a kiss to my forehead before urging my head down to rest against his chest.

"It's okay, Jordan," he says softly. "I'm here for you. You're safe; I'm not going to let anybody hurt you. And hey, you've got your mom's locket back, right?"

"It wasn't just the locket," I whisper, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

"You said nothing else was missing, Jo," he reminds me, his hand sliding down to rub my back as I tremble with barely-repressed sobs. "What else did he take?"

My throat constricts, my desire to unburden myself on his shoulders warring with my ingrained need to keep my own confidence. I want to trust him with this, want to share the mantle of responsibility for my wellbeing with the willing and able man who's holding me so tightly that I almost feel safe again, but the little part of my heart that doesn't trust anyone anymore is keeping the words firmly inside me.

"He didn't take anything else," I choke out finally, and Woody kisses the top of my head.

"It's okay, Jo," he repeats, his voice calm and steady. I cling to him, hoping some of that calm might rub off on me. "Is this about your hand? When he cut you?"

"He cut me after he –" My throat closes up again, and a shudder runs through me as I start to cry. Woody continues to rub my back, making soothing noises as my tears fall faster.

"Shh," he says gently. "Hey, don't cry, sweetheart. Come here."

He leads me over to the couch and we sink down onto the cushions. I sit practically in his lap, snuggling up to him and reveling in the feeling of security that his embrace gives me. He grabs my Patriots blanket from the back of the sofa, and I smile at his thoughtfulness as he drapes the blanket over us both, tucking it meticulously around me.

"Now, why don't you tell me what happened, Jo? From the beginning?"

"Okay," I whisper, closing my eyes so I don't have to see his reaction to my words. "When I came in that night, I found him going through my stuff. I said something – told him to stop, or something like that – and when he turned around, I realized he was wearing a ski mask. I was so angry that I wasn't scared…at least not at first. I yelled at him to get out. That's when he pulled the knife on me."

Woody squeezes me tighter, kissing my temple, and I continue haltingly.

"He made me take my clothes off. I thought he was going to kill me, Woody. I thought maybe if I just did what he said, he wouldn't hurt me, but then he…"

"God, Jordan," Woody breathes, tilting my face up so he can look at me. "Jordan, sweetheart, did he…did he rape you?"

"No," I whisper, as his gentle fingers brush my tears away. "He tried to touch me. When he reached for me I saw that he had the locket, and suddenly I realized that I had to _do_ something. I couldn't just let myself be a victim. Not like –" _Not like Mom_, the voice in my head says, but I push it back. I want to open up to Woody, but that's just too much too fast. I'm not ready to talk about this in the context of my mother's murder.

"Anyway, I hit him," I continue finally. "I tried to get the knife away from him. That's when he cut my hand. He wasn't expecting me to fight back, and he ran."

"Oh, man, Jordan." He kisses my forehead again, tenderly, as he rubs my cheek with his thumb. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Jo."

"It's not your fault," I sniffle, snuggling against his chest.

"If I hadn't dropped you at your door; if I'd just walked you inside…"

"It's not your fault," I repeat, my voice firmer this time. "Christ, Woody, I didn't even notice my door was unlocked. If you're going to blame anyone –"

"No, Jordan," he says sharply. "No way am I letting you blame yourself for this. The blame for this belongs with the bastard who hurt you. I'm going to catch him, Jo, and he's going to answer to me for what he did to you."

I smile to myself, picturing Woody beating the hell out of my attacker. I like it.

"I could almost feel sorry for him."

Woody smothers a laugh and I give him an odd look.

"Sorry," he chuckles. "I was just imagining this big scary guy, armed with a knife and running away from Jordan Cavanaugh, lightweight champion of the world. Although now that I think about it, you _are_ pretty scary when you're angry," he adds, gently teasing.

I snicker despite myself. He does paint a pretty funny picture.

"I guess I didn't do so badly for myself, huh?" I say, startled to find that it's the truth. "I fought back."

"You did great, Jordan," Woody replies, taking my hand in his and lacing our fingers together. "You fought back and you won. You didn't let him make you into a victim."

"No," I say slowly, a smile creeping onto my face. It's the same thing that Dr. Stiles was telling me, but coming from Woody, it's somehow more real. "I didn't, did I? God, Woody, that – you don't know how good that makes me feel."

"That's my girl," he agrees fondly, smiling warmly at me. "I'm proud of you, Jo."

His praise makes me brave, and the words slip out of my mouth before I can catch them. "Would you…would you stay? Tonight?"

"Of course I will," he promises, kissing my cheek. "I'm here for you, Jordan. Whatever you need, whether it's company or someone to talk to or your own personal twenty-four-hour on-call police escort, I'll be here."

"Well, I'll sleep better knowing I've got one of Boston's finest watching my back," I reply, only half-kidding.

We spend a little longer sitting together on the couch, talking about inconsequential things. I'm too worn out to delve into another deep subject tonight and Woody seems to realize it. When my eyes start sliding shut of their own accord and my head feels too heavy to hold up anymore, he gets to his feet. Before I can muster the courage to ask him if he's forgotten that he promised to stay, his arms are sliding under me. He lifts me as though I'm weightless and carries me over to my bed.

"Woody?" I murmur, as he pulls back the covers and lays me down on the soft cotton sheet.

"Shh," he soothes me, tucking the blanket up to my chin. "Go to sleep, Jordan."

"You're staying?"

"I'm staying," he promises. "I'll be on the couch if you need me."

"Wait," I plead as he starts to straighten. "Can't you stay in here?"

He hesitates and I flinch. The problem with my being so fiercely independent most of the time is that now I don't know what's acceptable for me to ask of him and what isn't.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have –"

Woody presses a finger to my lips.

"Will it make you feel safer?"

"Yes," I admit freely. He kicks off his shoes in response. As he reaches up to loosen his tie, I smile to myself. He catches me watching him and blushes, and I swallow a laugh, rolling over obediently and turning my back to him as he undresses. When I feel a light tug at the sheets I turn my head and catch a quick glimpse of him, absurdly sexy in boxers and a plain white undershirt, before he slips under the covers.

He reaches for me and I move willingly into his embrace. As he enfolds me in his arms, his lips brushing against my forehead, I send a silent thank-you to Nigel for his remarkably sound advice. I wish now that I'd let Woody in a long time ago. Maybe I wouldn't have been so lonely for so long. I never thought that when I finally slept with Woody, it would be anything like this, but somehow it's better this way. I've never dated a guy who wasn't interested in sex first and me second. Woody cares enough about me to just hold me while I sleep because it's what I need right now.

"Goodnight, Jordan," he whispers in my ear, interrupting my reverie. I snuggle closer to him, resting my hand over his heart.

"Night, Woody…and thank you. For everything. You don't know how much it means to me."

"Anything for you, Jordan," he tells me, placing his hand on top of mine and squeezing it gently. "Anything for you."

I fall asleep with his words echoing in my ears.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan or Jerry O'Connell. Unfortunately.

A/N: This chapter takes place the morning after Chapter 2. Sorry it's so short; there's more coming soon, I promise.

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The insistent buzz of my alarm clock drags me out of the best sleep I've had in a very long time. I swat halfheartedly at the nightstand, too drowsy to be bothered with opening my eyes; instead, I hope that my fingers will encounter the snooze button through blind luck.

A gentle hand covers mine, guiding my fingers to the button. I squint at the hand just long enough to realize who it belongs to, and as we turn off the little device together, the events of last night come rushing back to me. Woody stayed with me. I didn't have to bribe him or beg him or have sex with him to get him to do it, either; he did it because he was worried about me. Because he _cares_ about me. The idea is almost too novel to contemplate.

"Hey, sweetheart," the object of my musings murmurs from beside me, his voice groggy. I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes are bleary with sleep and his hair is rumpled from the pillow. I smile at the sight; he's cute when he's waking up.

"Morning," I sigh, burying my face against his chest.

"Time to get up," he says softly, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing it. I shake my head resolutely.

"Don't want to," I inform him, petulant. "Can't we just stay like this a little longer? Please?"

He chuckles softly, his fingers running through my hair. "I'll give you another five minutes, but then we both have to get ready for work."

"I _want_ forever," I complain, closing my eyes and snuggling closer to him, basking in the warmth of his body. "But if all you're offering is another five minutes, I'll take it."

He's silent for a moment, and then he sits up suddenly, bringing me with him. I frown, the sleepy haze clearing from my mind as I realize how he could have interpreted my remark.

"Woody, I –"

He holds up his hand to quiet me, reaching for the phone. I watch as he dials, and as he puts the receiver to his ear he cups my cheek with gentle fingers.

"Annie? It's Woody," he says, clearing his throat. "Look, I'm not going to be able to make it in today…Yeah, it's a personal thing. Tell the boss I'm out sick, will you?…Sure, no problem. I'll see you tomorrow."

He hits the end-call button, then hands the phone to me.

"Now I'm offering the rest of the day," he says simply, smiling at me before flopping back down onto the pillows. "You interested?"

I give him an unrestrained grin, punching in the number for Garrett's cell phone. Garrett, bless him, only lets me get far enough into my spiel to tell him that I'm too tired to be of any use to him today before he cuts me off, reminding me that he's been trying to get me to take some time off for over a month. He then flat-out orders me not to show my face at the morgue until I've had at least a day's worth of uninterrupted sleep. After another few moments' worth of small talk, we say goodbye. I hang up the phone triumphantly, curling up contentedly in the circle of Woody's arms.

"Thank you," I whisper, looking up at him. He's watching me with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his expression warring between fond amusement and something deeper.

"I told you, Jordan," he replies, his voice soft as he brushes my hair away from my face. "I'm here for you, whatever you need. Right now you need sleep and I'm going to make sure you get some."

"I haven't slept this well since before the break-in," I confess. "Actually, I haven't really slept at all since the break-in. I was afraid to." I glance up at him, smiling tentatively. "I feel safe with you, though."

"Jordan," he breathes, his arms tightening around me. "You _are_ safe with me, sweetheart. I promise. No matter what, you'll always be safe with me. I'll never let anybody hurt you."

His words send a pleasant shiver down my spine. I've always prided myself on being strong and self-sufficient, but everybody needs to rely on someone else once in a while, and I know I can trust Woody to take care of me. I can count the number of people I trust that much on one hand and still have fingers left over.

I rest my head on his chest, closing my eyes. His heartbeat under my ear is soothing, the steady sound lulling me back into the soft darkness of sleep. As I'm drifting off, I feel his hand on my back, his fingers stroking my bare skin, and I realizeI can't remember the last time I felt so secure.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan and I'm never taking down my Christmas decorations. So there.

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"You weren't in yesterday."

I turn around, my mouth full of bagel, to see Nigel smirking at me. Swallowing hurriedly, I take a sip of my coffee before responding.

"I needed a day off," I say, shrugging. "I was feeling a little under the weather. I spent the whole day in bed."

That doesn't seem to deter him. If anything, his smile grows wider.

"Well, I hope you had a good time," he snickers. I fold my arms across my chest, instantly suspicious.

"What?"

"What what?" he evades, winking at me.

"What do you mean, what? Whatare you laughing about? Why is that funny?" I demand, impatient. He doesn't answer immediately, reaching past me to grab a danish.

"We had a fairly uneventful day yesterday," he says finally, around a mouthful of pastry. "Although I did get called out to a homicide. Detective Capra was there."

"Good for her," I reply, willfully ignoring his insinuation.

"She said she was covering for Detective Hoyt, who was taking a personal day."

"Well, that was nice of her."

He gives me a knowing look. "Are you telling me the two of you weren't together yesterday? That there's some other reason you're practically glowing this morning?"

I sigh, leaning back against the counter. I'm tempted to lie to him, but this is Nigel I'm talking to. He'll know I'm lying, and then whatever wild story he's concocting in his head about what Woody and I were doing yesterday will spread across the morgue like wildfire. The only possible way for me to make him keep this quiet is to tell him the truth, make him feel guilty, and then swear him to secrecy.

"Fine," I tell him, resigned. "You really want to know? You're right. We were together. He came over two nights ago because he found my mother's locket. You know, the one that was stolen? He wanted to return it. So naturally I took the opportunity to have a raging Chernobyl-style emotional meltdown, because everything was just too much to handle and I didn't know how to deal with it anymore."

"Jordan?"

He sounds concerned. I look down at my hands as he slips an arm around my shoulders.

"He took care of me, Nige," I continue, feeling oddly vulnerable as the words leave my mouth. "He held me all night while I slept. Just – just held me, and told me everything would be okay. And when I woke up and I was still tired, he took the day off and stayed with me so that I'd feel safe enough to go back to sleep."

"Aw, Jo," he says softly, setting down his danish as he pulls me into a hug. "I'm sorry for teasing, love. I didn't know."

"It's okay. I just…you won't tell anybody, will you?"

He swallows it hook, line, and sinker. "Of course not, love," he promises, kissing my forehead. "Your secret's safe with me. Are you feeling any better today?"

"I'm fine now," I say, surprised to find that it doesn't feel like a lie. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to get a decent night's sleep, let alone twenty-four hours' worth. I feel like I could take on the world."

"Start smaller," he advises, ruffling my hair. "How about taking on the case in Autopsy Three? Man vs. city bus. We can tag team it."

"Give me five minutes," I reply, smiling up at him. I head for the door, but his tentative words stop me.

"Jordan…you know that if you're hurting…" He pauses, giving me his patented toothy grin. "Woodrow's not the only one who'd call in sick for you."

"I know that," I tell him, bounding back across the room and throwing my arms around him again. "You're the best friend a girl could ask for, Nige. Thank you."

He holds me tightly for a few moments, and then something occurs to me.

"I meant to thank you for something else, too."

"What, love?"

I grin up at him, kissing his cheek.

"You give good advice."

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Three hours later  
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"Jordan?"

I look over at my office door, blushing a thoroughly un-Jordan-like shade of pink when I see Woody standing there. He looks effortlessly handsome in a navy blue suit, a white button-up shirt, and one of his usual god-awful ties.

"Hey, Woody." I start to raise a hand to fix my hair and then stop in mid-motion when I realize what I'm doing. Thankfully, he's oblivious to the nervous gesture as he steps cautiously into my office, pushing the door shut behind him.

"I was – uh, I mean, I just stopped by to –" He hesitates, looking awkward. "I wanted to make sure you were doing all right. I mean, after yesterday."

"I'm fine," I tell him, walking around my desk to stand in front of him. "I feel a lot better now."

"Good," he sighs, visibly relieved. He reaches up to tuck a stray curl of hair behind my ear, brushing his fingers gently against my cheek before he lowers his arm. "I was worried about you."

"I was worried about me, too," I admit. "You don't know how much I needed you last night. It's weird for me…I don't know if you'd noticed, but I'm not great at needing people. But I needed you, and you were there, and I…I really appreciate it."

The corners of his mouth curve upward in a slight smile, and he reaches out to pull me into his arms. I don't resist the motion, leaning willingly against him.

"You know you can count on me, Jo."

I smile against the oxford cloth of his shirt as his words sink in. It's funny; I never used to like being held. Things are different with Woody. He doesn't want anything from me but my happiness. Knowing that he doesn't have any ulterior motives allows me to let down my guard around him, and I'm starting to realize how nice it is not to have to be independent all the time.

"Jordan? What are you thinking about?"

"You," I answer honestly, making a spur-of-the-moment decision. "Are you free for lunch?"

"As long as it doesn't involve chimichangas," he replies, and we both laugh.

"There's a great Greek place on Westshore," I offer. He changes his grip on me in response, wrapping one arm around my waist as we walk to the door together. When we get there, he helps me put on my coat and I smile again, reveling in how special he makes me feel.

Woody steps in front of me to open the door, holding it for me as I walk into the hall. As I pass him, I capture his free hand with mine. He gives me a surprised look and I tighten my grip, interlacing our fingers.

A boyish grin spreads across his face, and he squeezes my hand. We're almost to the elevator when Nigel steps out of the door to Trace Evidence, catching sight of us.

"Jordan, Woodrow," he greets us, but stops short when he notices our clasped hands. His eyes light up at the new and varied teasing opportunities this is going to afford him, and then he visibly deflates when he remembers our conversation this morning. He's already promised to keep his mouth shut.

"Hey, Nige," I say gleefully. Holding Woody's hand is nice in and of itself, but thwarting Nigel's innate need to rib me is definitely a pleasant side benefit. "We're headed out for lunch. Cover for me, will you?"

"Oh, sure," he replies, raising an eyebrow at me. "Just remember that you owe me." He looks at our hands again, shaking his head in mock-despair. "You own me big time."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me, but damn, I wish Jerry O'Connell did.

A/N: This takes place three days after the last chapter. Sorry it took so long. :)

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_Jordan - 7:02 PM  
_

I snap off my gloves and throw them in the general vicinity of the biohazard trash can. They miss the can by almost two feet, landing on the counter, and I groan.

"Story of my life," I mutter, knocking them into the trash as I walk out of the room. "A day late and a dollar short."

I trudge down the hall to my office, wishing this day would hurry up and end. After Monday, when I spent the whole day sleeping in Woody's arms, I started thinking that things would take a turn for the better. I might have been right, too, except that my stubborn recklessness joined forces with my fear of getting too close to people and destroyed any chance I might have had of making the best of this situation. As I grab my things from my office, I remember the confrontation that led to my being alone tonight.

Woody and I had a nice lunch on Tuesday, and I went back to work feeling pretty good about the world in general. That lasted until I ran into Renee Walcott. She and I rode up to the morgue in the same elevator. I was perfectly willing to do the stare-straight-ahead-and-pretend-I'm-alone thing, but Walcott had other ideas. Right before the elevator reached our floor, she glanced over at me, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you and Detective Hoyt working on a case?"

"No, we were just having lunch," I replied, realizing she must have seen him drop me off outside.

"You seem to spend a lot of time together," she observed, her tone a little snide.

"We're friends," I told her, not sure why it sounded like she was accusing me of something. I was about to find out.

The door started to open and she turned to face me, taking hold of my elbow.

"He's a good cop, Jordan," she said firmly. "Be careful. You don't want to interfere with that."

With that, she let go of me and stepped off the elevator. I was so stunned that I forgot to follow her off. The doors slid shut on my dismayed expression, and I rode the elevator up and down three times before I managed to pull myself together enough to go back to the morgue.

I spent the next three days kicking myself for involving Woody in my problems. Walcott was right. I'm infamous for running roughshod over everything and everyone that I have to in order to solve a case. If Woody is involved with me and I piss off the wrong superior – Walcott, for example– he could end up paying the price. My life is enough of a wreck; I don't need to ruin Woody's career, too.

I decided that day to leave Woody out of this, to handle my problems on my own. I just wish that getting over the fear was as easy as making the decision to shield Woody from the potential consequences of being my friend.

"Headed home?"

I jump, whirling around to find Garret watching me closely.

"Yeah," I manage to get out, trying not to let him see how rattled I am. "Yeah, I'm done for the night."

"You've been a little twitchy lately."

"I thought I was alone," I retort. "You scared me."

He raises an eyebrow at me, extending his hand in my direction. I stare uncomprehendingly at it and he sighs, taking my bag out of my arms and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Come on," he says, turning me toward the elevator.

"What are you doing?"

"Walking you to your car. I don't want to find you dead of a coronary in the parking garage tomorrow morning because somebody spooked you."

I sigh heavily, but I'm too weary to argue. Anyway, I'd die before I'd admit it, but I feel better when I'm around other people. Since the break-in, I really don't like to be alone.

* * *

_Woody - 10:48 PM  
_

I kick off my sneakers, dropping my gym bag on the floor next to the couch and making a beeline for the shower. My hand is on the doorknob to the bathroom when the phone rings. I groan, abandoning my dream of a long, uninterrupted hot shower in favor of searching for my cell phone. I'd just let it ring, but it's probably work.

"This is Hoyt," I say, holding back a sigh of exasperation. My annoyance turns to concern when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.

"Woody?"

" Jordan?" She sounds awful. " Jordan, what's wrong?"

"Can I…I…" She sighs, defeated. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Not at all," I tell her, reaching for my shoes. My desire for a shower takes a distant second to my worry for Jordan's well-being. "You want me to come over?"

She laughs self-deprecatingly. "There wouldn't be much point to that."

"Why not?"

"Because I've been sitting in your parking lot for the last hour."

I pull my beaten-up cross-trainers hurriedly onto my feet, grab my coat, and make it out the door in under six seconds. When I get downstairs I realize she was speaking literally. Her SUV is nowhere in sight; she's sitting on the hood of my sedan, her legs dangling awkwardly over the edge like a little girl's.

" Jordan," I call out, approaching her. She looks up and the tear tracks on her face shimmer under the streetlight.

"Hey," she says quietly, returning her gaze to the pavement. I stand in front of her, taking her hands in mine and flinching at how cold she is to the touch.

"Your fingers are like ice," I scold her gently, pulling off my coat and wrapping it around her. "Aren't you cold?"

"Yes," she agrees, fresh tears appearing in her eyes. I catch a whiff of her breath and nod to myself. She's been drinking; pretty heavily, I'd guess, if she's this out of it. I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her easily off of the car and setting her down on her feet.

"Let's get you inside," I tell her, keeping my arm around her waist for support. She stumbles on the stairs but I catch her, tightening my grip and leading her up to my apartment.

Once we're inside, I guide her over to the couch, sitting down next to her as she slumps back against the pillows.

"Talk to me, Jo," I entreat, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it gently. "What happened?"

"I was in the park, taking a walk to clear my head. I saw a guy playing football with his friends and all I could think was, 'What if that's him?' I don't know what he looks like, Woody. I don't _know_…I saw half a dozen guys in that park who were the same height and build. It could have been any of them. It could have been anyone. I'm never going to know. He's still out there – he'll always be out there –"

"It's okay, Jordan," I interrupt her as she starts to become hysterical. She looks at me, naked fear in her eyes, and my heart breaks for her. I pull her into a tight hug, wishing my presence could shield her from her fears. "It's okay. You're safe now."

She clings tightly to me, holding on as if her life depends on it. I press my face against her hair, rocking her gently. After a few minutes she starts to relax, taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself down.

"Sorry," she whispers finally, and I shake my head.

"It's nothing to be sorry for." I frown at the top of her head. She's been distant toward me ever since Tuesday, but I figured she was feeling better. If she's been keeping to herself because she was embarrassed about needing to ask for help, I'm going to be beating myself up over it for days. I should've tried harder to help her. I should have been a better friend to her. "Jo, have you been feeling this bad all week?"

"Not really," she sighs, pulling out of my embrace. "I mean, it hasn't been _good_, but tonight…"

"Tonight was rough," I agree. "But you handled it the right way. You came to me."

"Well, first I got really drunk," she disclaims.

"Really?" I tease, but she misses the amusement in my voice.

"Yeah. I was trying to…to put it out of my head. I didn't want to be afraid, so I thought…"

"You thought you could drink yourself into oblivion," I mutter to myself. Her self-destructive tendencies drive me crazy. "So what happened then?"

"It didn't work." She smiles wryly. "I'm a pretty tolerant person."

"You mean you've got a high alcohol tolerance?"

"That's what I said."

"Right."

"So anyway," she says, continuing, "it didn't work. It didn't matter how much I drank, the fear just wouldn't go away. But then I remembered the sleeping pills Dr. Montgomery prescribed for me. I had to get them from him because Stiles knows about last time…"

I don't know what 'last time' she's talking about, but I do know what happens when you mix sleeping pills and alcohol. I've worked plenty of suicides that resulted from that particular combination.

" Jordan?" I shake her shoulders as she looks blearily at me, trying to get her to focus. " Jordan, how many pills did you take?"

She responds to the urgency in my tone, producing a little white prescription bottle from her pocket. I heft it in my hand, realizing with no small amount of relief that it's either full or very close to it.

"I didn't take any. I wanted to, but I – I started thinking about when I asked you to stay with me and how safe you made me feel, and I decided to come over here instead. I lost my nerve when I got here, because of what Walcott said."

"What did Walcott say?"

Jordan sniffles, swiping at the tears on her cheeks.

"She said I'd ruin your career if we stayed friends."

"She said that to you?" I demand, instantly furious on Jordan's behalf. "Jo, she had no right. It's not true."

"It _is_ true, Woody. I'm trouble and everybody knows it. One day I might piss off the wrong person and you could get caught in the middle. I don't want to be the reason you never make Chief of Police."

I sigh, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.

"I'm not in this to make Chief. I'm in it to solve murders, to put the bad guys away, and for that I need you. You're amazing, Jordan. You're the best ME in Boston, hands down. Everybody knows that, even Walcott."

"She doesn't like me," Jordan says, petulant, and I snort.

"You're right," I tell her, ruffling her hair affectionately. "But that doesn't have anything to do with how good you are at your job, and it certainly doesn't affect our friendship. I need you in my life at work, and I want you in my life outside of work. You're my friend. I _like_ you, Jordan. I like having you around."

"You do?" She sounds hopeful and a little puzzled. "Why? I mean, most of the time _I_ don't even like me."

"No?"

"I'm pushy and inconsiderate and stubborn –"

"Yeah," I agree easily. "But on you, it's cute."

"Oh," she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Well…good. Then you're okay with me being here?"

"I'm more than okay with it. I'm here for you 24/7, Jordan. Remember that."

"I did," she says quietly. "That's why I called you even though I was scared to get you in trouble. Because you promised I could come to you…and because I really needed you."

"You did the right thing, sweetie," I promise her, kissing her forehead. She smiles up at me, snuggling against me as her eyes start to fall shut, weighed down by the events of the evening and all of the stress she's been under.

I talk softly to her, reassuring her that she's safe and welcome here, until her breathing evens out and I know she's asleep. Then I dump the contents of the prescription bottle onto the coffee table, counting the pills as Jordan dozes against me. When I get the final count, I compare it to the number on the label. There are two pills missing.

Carefully, so as not to wake Jordan, I reach for my phone and dial the Poison Control Hotline. The woman I speak with tells me that even if Jordan took those two pills tonight they won't do her any damage, although if she's had too much to drink I should watch her carefully for signs of alcohol poisoning. I thank her and hang up.

I slide my hand behind Jordan's head and move it gently off of my chest, lowering her down to rest on the couch pillows. Once she's settled I gather up the pills and head for the bathroom. I breathe a little easier once I've flushed the last pill down the toilet.

Watching Jordan from the hallway, I dig through my rolodex and find Dr. Stiles' cell phone number. The voice that answers is groggy, but I don't have any sympathy.

"Howard Stiles."

"Dr. Stiles, this is Woody Hoyt from the police department."

"Ah, yes, Detective Hoyt. To what do I owe the late-night phone call?"

" Jordan is passed out on my couch."

"What happened?"

"She was upset. According to her, she got really drunk to forget about it, and when she couldn't knock herself out that way she remembered she had a bottle of prescription sleeping pills in her apartment."

"She needs to be in a hospital," Stiles gasps. "Call 911 –"

"She didn't take the pills," I assure him. "I counted them after she fell asleep. What I want to know is, how am I supposed to handle this? How do I make sure she doesn't do this again?"

He hesitates, gathering his thoughts.

"There are no guarantees, Detective," he says finally. "What kept her from taking the pills tonight?"

"She said she decided to come here instead, that she felt safe here."

"Then I think your best bet is to keep her feeling safe."

"Keep her feeling safe," I repeat, nodding slowly. "Right. I think I can do that…Dr. Stiles?"

"Yes?"

"She said you wouldn't prescribe her sleeping pills because you 'knew about the last time'. What did she mean?"

He clears his throat. "That's privileged information, Detective. If you want to know, you're going to have to ask Jordan, but I wouldn't do it right away. She's vulnerable right now."

"I won't push her," I agree. "Thank you."

"I'd like to see her, to talk to her about this."

"I'll ask her," I tell him, frowning. "But if she knows I called you –"

"Don't worry," he assures me. "This will be our little secret."

* * *

When I come back into the living room, Jordan is sprawled across the couch, moaning softly in her sleep. I crouch down next to her, worried that she's having a nightmare. 

"Wake up, Jordan," I murmur, shaking her shoulder gently. "Jo?"

"Mmph," she groans, opening her eyes as she covers her mouth with her hand. "I'm going to be sick."

I suck in a sharp breath, unable to believe that I didn't see this coming. Jordan is about to remember why drinking as heavily as she did tonight is generally considered to be a bad idea.

"Come on," I instruct, lifting her up in my arms and carrying her into the bathroom. I just barely get her there in time. I hold her hair back for her as she gags, using my free hand to rub her back the way my mom used to rub mine when I got sick as a kid.

"Oh, God," she moans between bouts of retching, leaning back to rest her head against my chest. I hold her carefully, making sure not to jostle her. "I'm so sick."

"I know, sweetie," I murmur, kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry. If I could make it better, I would."

"It'll pass," she says, but she sounds doubtful, and I suppress a sigh as she leans over the toilet again. Stroking her hair with gentle hands, I settle in for a long night on the cold tile floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan, but I'm glad AE seems to like showing it. Today I finally got to see the kiss!

* * *

**The next morning  
****Jordan**

"Come on, Jordan," Woody's voice coaxes me. I squeeze my eyes shut instinctively, curling into a tighter ball.

"I'm sleeping," I mumble into my pillow. "G'way."

"Jordan," he says again, his breath warm against my ear. "Let's go, baby. Time to wake up."

The nearness of him encourages me to give it a shot, but that encouragement is outvoted when I try to open my eyes and am confronted by far too much light. The jackhammer behind my right temple kicks it up another notch in angry response.

"Oh, God," I groan. Something cool and soft comes to rest on my forehead, and I squint up at Woody, realizing he's responsible for the wet washcloth that's starting to take the edge off of my aching head.

"Hey, sunshine," he whispers, stroking my hair with gentle fingers. "How're you feeling?"

"My head," I groan painfully, and he nods.

"Are you still feeling sick?"

I frown, thinking hard. "No," I say finally. "Was I sick?"

"Violently," he tells me with a rueful smile, cupping my cheek with his hand. "You don't remember?"

I'm about to tell him I don't when suddenly I recall a snippet of last night: me vomiting in a vaguely familiar bathroom, feeling like my stomach was turning itself inside out and really, truly wishing I were dead…Woody's hands holding back my hair, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered words of sympathy and compassion…feeling horribly ill, but less horribly alone than I had all night while I was throwing back shot after shot of tequila in my living room.

"Woody, I'm so sorry," I mutter, my eyes stinging with embarrassed tears. I got blitzed and came over here to make Woody clean up my mess, as usual. "I'm such a train wreck."

"It's okay, Jo," he says gently. "I'm really glad you came to me last night."

"Yeah," I snort. "I'm sure that was your idea of a fun Friday night."

He sits down next to me on the bed, wrapping his arm around me, and I tilt my head sideways to rest against his shoulder.

"You needed help last night and you came to me. I respect that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am that you did." He kisses my forehead, communicating volumes of emotion with one small gesture. "I was scared for you last night, Jordan."

"I didn't want to be afraid anymore," I whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek. Woody brushes it cautiously away. "I wasn't trying to – to hurt myself. I just wanted to feel safe again."

"Well, you're safe here," he says decisively. "You feel safe here, right?"

"Yeah, of course." I look down at my hands, smiling self-consciously. "You're here."

"Then we'll move you in."

"What?"

"Today," he elaborates, ignoring the incredulity in my tone. "You need to feel safe, Jordan. I don't ever want a repeat of last night. I don't ever want to feel that helpless again. If you're staying here, we'll both feel better."

"Woody, I can't just move in with you."

"Yes, you can."

"But –"

"No, Jordan. No buts." He lifts my face to his, looking me squarely in the eyes. "You can't go on like this."

"I know," I whisper, my voice rough with unshed tears. "I know I can't. But Woody, this isn't – it's not _like _me. I don't need people."

"Everybody needs people, Jordan. You know, 'no man is an island'."

"I'm not a man," I quip weakly. "Come on, you know how I am. I hate this. I mean, I hate that I'm being so needy, not that I hate being with you, because I don't, it's nice, I just –"

"Jordan," he interrupts, pressing a finger to my lips to cut off my babbling. "I understand…I think I do, anyway. But that's not important right now."

"It's important to me!"

"That's not what I meant to say. Your independence is important to me, too. It's part of what makes you who you are. I'm not trying to change you, Jordan, or make you into somebody you aren't. I just think it's more important for you to be safe than independent right now. You agree with that, don't you?"

I think seriously about it for a minute. My independence has always been a cornerstone of my personality, a way I've defined myself. Am I willing to throw that all away, to exchange it for peace of mind? I've never been willing before: not with Tyler, not with my job or my place of residence. Is this so much worse than all the other times I've had to deal with something bad alone?

Even as I form the question, I know the answer. Nothing I've ever dealt with before, with the exception of my mother's murder, involved a threat I didn't provoke. Even the situation with Digger was of my own making; I'm the one who went to his trailer and dropped my ID for him to find, making me a target. This time, though, I didn't do anything to incite the situation. The attacker picked me at random, and the idea that a random person could attack me on a whim has shaken me to the core. I need to know that I'm safe, and I can't be sure of that if I'm living alone. With Woody around, I have the security I so desperately need. I'm just going to have to let myself rely on him for a little while. At least I know he'll be there for me when I need him. There's something to be said for good old-fashioned Midwestern dependability.

"You're right," I say finally, reluctant. "But it's not like I'm moving in forever. I just need a little time to get my feet back under me."

"That's fine with me. You can stay as long as you want, and you can leave whenever you feel ready."

"No strings?"

"No strings," he agrees, and I sigh.

"Then I guess we've got a deal."

"Good," he replies, patting my shoulder. "Let's go get your stuff."

* * *

**Jordan's apartment  
Woody**

Under Jordan's direction, I help her pack an assortment of tank tops, sweaters, and jeans into a duffel bag. She's got enough for at least two weeks, which tells me that despite her initial reluctance she's as serious about this as I am. We also make a small stack of nice clothes that need to be hung up – 'Just in case,' Jordan explains with distaste, and I smile. Jordan is the quintessential t-shirt-and-jeans girl, and she hates dressing up.

To my disappointment, she packs her undergarments herself. I try to catch a peek at them, reaching into the bag and grabbing at a scrap of powder blue lace, but Jordan slaps my hand away.

"No funny stuff, Detective," she warns me, giving me a sideways smile. "I'm not that kind of girl."

"Well, we _are_ living together now," I quip, and she rolls her eyes.

"Be careful, Farm boy, or you'll be sleeping on the couch."

"You can't do that; it's my apartment!"

I'm pretending to put up a fight, but I'm pleasantly surprised at the change in Jordan's attitude since this morning. Maybe having a firm plan to deal with her fears has made her more comfortable. Whatever caused the change, I hope she stays this way for a while. I don't mind taking care of Jordan when she's down – truth be told, I like seeing her softer side. I just wish I could see that side of her without having to see her hurting as well.

"It _was_ your apartment," she corrects me airily. "Now it's _our_ apartment."

I try not to laugh, but the innocent 'who, me?' look on her face pushes me over the edge. She joins in, and for a moment things are back to normal.

"I think I'm all packed," Jordan says finally, when our laughter has subsided. She shoulders the duffel bag, looking around for anything she's forgotten and nodding, satisfied. "Bring those clothes, will you?"

I take the stack from the bed obediently, and I'm about to follow Jordan out of her bedroom when something catches my eye. There's a green cotton dress hanging in her closet, incongruous in its feminine simplicity. I can't imagine the Jordan Cavanaugh I know buying anything like it, and I can't help but wonder how she looks in it.

"Woody? Are you coming?"

Decisively, I grab the dress out of the closet, burying it in amongst her other clothes. I'll get her to wear it somehow.

She raises an eyebrow at me when I come into the living room, but when she sees my guileless expression, she merely shrugs.

"Want to stop somewhere for breakfast?" she proposes. "I'm starving."

"You read my mind," I tell her, throwing a companionable arm around her shoulders as we head through the door. She hesitates for a moment when she reaches out to lock it behind us, and I know without asking that she's thinking about the break-in. I squeeze her tightly against me, reminding her silently of my supportive presence, and the movement is enough to jolt her out of her reverie. She turns the key in the lock, giving me a soft smile and gesturing toward the stairs.

"Come on, Farm boy. Daylight's wasting."


End file.
